In the wake of war
by Jellicos
Summary: Kate Harper and CJ Cregg find themselves in a bar after a particularly trying day. Femslash.


Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters CJ Cregg and Kate Harper are the property of Aaron Sorkin etc etc. I'm simply borrowing them and manipulating them to depravity:p   
A/N: I'm simply trying my hand at a -for me- new form of writing and new pairing, please feel free to let me know if you like it, don't like it, want more, want it all to go away like a really bad dream, or anything else.

Love,  
Jellicos

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**In the wake of war. **

It was a bit cliché really. The soft piano music filling the thick air, musty from being breathed in and out by too many too drunk suits.

You are beyond caring right now, beyond being bothered by the atmosphere. This was DC and there were a million and one of these places. The walls are clad in mahogany; everything had this old and heavy look to it, like the whole setting had been pulled from an old courthouse. Leaning over the counter top, you don't even have to look around to see what kinds of people occupy the room. The scent of bourbon and stale cigars are mixed with sweat and cologne, the kind you'd find on twenty-something-year-old lobbyists trying to fake that they belong. Crumpled suits, too many briefcases to be sure yours is the one you take home with you. It is the last stop of politicians with really bad days… or years.

"How do you do it?" Her voice is raspy and low and you know it's because she's had too much to drink. Yet you can't help but be affected by how her eyes linger on your legs for just a fraction of a second.

"Do what?" You ask, even though you know what she's talking about. It's the same thing she's been talking about all night. You know you'll never get used to it, you've been there, you've seen it happen. In wars people die and it never gets any easier. In a way you wish you were as naïve about it as she is. And you can't help but resent her a bit for not knowing how bad it really is. And yet, when she looks at you with those bloodshot, heavy lidded eyes, you feel for her. She doesn't know, but she cares.

"Make it go away." It's both an answer to your question and a plead for anyone to do just that as she reaches for her drink and empties it in one sweep.

In wars people die, but you know that she feels responsible. It's not an ego thing; other people might see it that way, people that do not know her might think it's self-centred to think it's your fault that fifteen soldiers died abroad. It's not her fault, but you know you can't convince her of that tonight.

"It doesn't get any easier, and if it does, you have more pressing matters to worry about than work." You know that's true, she knows it too. That's why she's nodding against the counter top of the bar. "Let me take you home." You offer as you see the bartender shooting you both concerned looks. The bottle between you is empty by now and she's swaying slightly in her seat. She's drunk and so are you. You can tell by the way you keep finding yourself watching her in the most inappropriate of ways.

You've been playing this game all night. Every time you catch her watching, you've smirked. Every time she's caught you watching, you've blushed. You're not sure what's going on, it's never been like this, but you can't help but wonder if her skin is as soft as it looks.

"Kate…" She says your name so softly and as you look up to meet her eye you know she's caught you starring at her legs again. You keep telling yourself it's nothing. Her legs go on for miles, it's an aesthetic appreciation. But the look in her eyes blows your cover.

Instead you find yourself leaning towards her, your hand brushing against her thigh and the rough texture of her pantyhose.

"Let me take you home." You whisper against her cheek and you feel a tingling sensation in the lower regions of your stomach as she nods her head in acceptance… of both your suggestions.

The car ride is quiet and awkward. You know what you want to do and so does she, but you also know that there are other people in the car.

You know they'd never say a word, or at least this is what you have heard. It's part of their job, to say nothing and see everything. Maybe it's the see everything thing that get to her.

She's used to them, they follow her everywhere, but maybe that is what bothers her as well, to know someone is watching everything you do even if they say nothing.

At least this is what you tell yourself when she slides across the backseat to sit at the other end, looking out the window, as far away from you as possible. You tell yourself it's because of the secret service, not you.

It's not before the faceless man in the dark suit tells her its all clear, that they've secured the way to her apartment, that she even looks at you. As she asks you in for coffee you just nod your head and follow.

You don't think you'll ever get used to the faceless men. At least they have the decency to stay outside her apartment. They clear the way, make sure it's safe, and then stay outside. They are human shields in suits.

Inside, she heads for the kitchen, mindlessly rambling on about how she meant to decorate but never had the time. You follow her but don't listen. You know she doesn't expect you too, she just likes to talk. Silence bothers her.

She turns and you can't resist her parted lips but reach out to cup her face, silencing her ramblings with your lips. It's an urge, a physical need, nothing else. You ignore how her soft moan tugs at your heart. You tell yourself the feeling took a wrong turn on its way to your libido. You know it's not true, but for now it's the best you can do.

Her coat makes a rustling sound as she wraps her arms around you and you can't help but think of how strange it is that she smells like the outdoors and not as much of the stale scent from the bar. Though you can taste the alcohol and something minty as she parts her lips for you and all coherent thought is lost as you give in to her tongue in your mouth.

None one of you speak and you're thankful for it. You don't want to think or feel. Just to remember that her skin is even softer than you imagined, that she gasps as you suck on her neck. You want to remember all those spots that make her whimper your name and how the sight of her will haunt your mind as the contrast of light and shadow play over the planes of her face in the darkness of her bedroom.

It's not love, it's not even feelings, it is lust and desire and the release after a very bad day. At least this is what you tell yourself as you make love to her slowly and passionately until she cries out your name and you have to fight to keep your convictions.

She's beautiful, she always is, but right now she's stealing your breath away and you are more than willing to let her.

She's not gay and neither are you. You're just two co-workers and friends with a lot on their minds.

"CJ…" You breathe her name as a mantra as her fingers build you up. She's watching you, her eyes glued to yours and you feel safe, loved even, and at this very moment, you allow yourself to feel it. The softness in her eyes, the gentleness in which she holds you and soothes your cries of release, it's enough to fool your heart. But you tell yourself it's just in this moment, you are weak and it's alright to be weak just this once.

But then as it's over, you let yourself hold her. You stroke her cheek as she fells asleep on your chest. Feeling happy, safe and warm you let yourself drift off to sleep in her arms, in her bed. You know you're fooling yourself, but you keep telling yourself that it's okay.

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_Hmm... You want to kick me right now, don't you:) Well, there's a button to your lower left that will allow you just that.  
Thanks for reading. And feedback is always delightfully appreciated, encouraged even.  
_


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